


A Moonlight Tryst

by GoldBlooded



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Outdoor Sex, Porn With Plot, Sex, Smut, Thilbo Bagginshield - Freeform, fem!Bilbo, tattooed!thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2113341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldBlooded/pseuds/GoldBlooded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A smutty two-shot with some fluff, a fem!Bilbo, and a Thorin who's trying to be valiant but ends up being stalkery instead. </p><p>Or: why is Thorin following their hobbit around the woods in the middle of the night and what is she doing out there anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Bilba Is Determined to Get Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings! I've read so much great fluff/smut on here I decided to contribute my own. 
> 
> (First attempt at Bagginshield so please be gentle.)

The hour was late. The fire had gone from roaring to smoldering, but still put off enough heat to keep everyone in the clearing warm. The company was strewn around the fire, sleeping soundly after an evening of good food and ale (which had been acquired in the last village they passed through), and cheerful music and dancing. Bilba had awakened to roll over but couldn’t manage to fall back asleep. She turned onto her back and after several minutes realized that she was not going to be able to sleep again for a long while. Somehow this didn’t bother her and in that moment, on her bedroll in a wooded area far from her green door in the Shire, in a cocoon of a blanket and quiet solitude, she felt at peace for the first time since being on the road.

She lay still and watched the sky dusted with twinkling stars and marveled at the pale beauty of the nearly full waxing moon, all the while listening to the sounds of nocturnal insects that filled the night, wood cracking and popping in the fire, and the snores of various slumbering dwarves. She thought about how much sleeping on the ground surrounded by over a dozen males would have bothered her before running out of her smial, but now had become the normal order of business at the end of the day. The pre-journey Bilba would have been very uncomfortable sleeping outside, vulnerable, too receptive to the unpleasant sounds of nature… but not this Bilba. This Bilba had come to love the openness and camaraderie, between both her traveling companions and nature.

The fire eventually ran low and the summer night’s chill set in, and Bilba (despite her new-found resilience) was one to take comforts where she could. Quietly, she got up and put another couple of logs on the fire to ensure her and the dwarves’ coziness as they slept. As she placed the last log in the pile and coaxed the fire into merrily crackling once more, she noticed by the brighter glow of the flame just how dirty her hands were. She tried- and failed- to remember the last time she had bathed properly (that means complete submersion and a full-body scrub, thank you very much), and yearned to seize her opportunity for privacy. She remembered the stream they had crossed on the road earlier in the day and knew it would be somewhere nearby, so she decided to go searching for it.

After grabbing a cake of soap from near the stew cauldron (it wasn’t ideal but better than nothing), she silently made her way past Fili and Kili- who were ‘on watch’ but were really napping on each other’s shoulders- and snuck her way through the woods, guided by the light of the moon, stepping lightly and carefully so as not to awaken anyone or anything. Eventually she heard the cheerful trickle that signaled a brook and emerged from the woods into a clearing.

The stream from several miles back had by this point become a small river. Where Bilba stood in the clearing some of the water had branched away from the river and had become a pool of crystal water with a current much slower than the river itself. It was surrounded by several bulky rocks and the water shone with the light of the moon and stars, and everything around was cast in a white-silver glow. The pool was extremely inviting after days of hard riding, even if she expected it to be chilled. Her muscles were tense and her skin dirty and there was no telling when she’d get this chance again, so she took the opportunity to bathe herself.

As she was undressing, she heard a twig snap behind her and cursed herself for not bringing a blade- Bombur’s kitchen knife had been _right there_ when she fetched the soap, why hadn’t she grabbed it too?! Slowly, she turned around to see what creature was going to try to eat her when she saw Thorin Oakenshield walking as silently as he could into the clearing (which was not very quiet, as dwarves are probably the least stealthy creatures in all of Middle-earth). His permanent scowl had deepened and his eyes burned with a quiet fury.

“Why did you venture off into strange woods in the deep of night? _Unarmed_?” he asked in a low rumble. “Has your sanity taken leave of you?” This was the first time he had spoken to her in days, after the latest in a string of petty accusations and arguments had gotten a little too out of hand.

“No,” Bilba responded, “but my cleanliness has. And I’m not that defenseless. I will not be berated or shamed for practicing good hygiene, and I am going to stay here and take a bath. Now you can either do the same, because you smell too, or _go away_.”

This was clearly not the reply he had been expecting, and cursed at Bilba in Khuzdul before replying.  
“Mahal's hammer, woman, if you have not the wits to defend yourself mid-night in a forest, someone will have to do it for you.”

She chuckled dismissively and continued undressing. The water before her beckoned and she was eager to splash about in it, if only to about waist-high (you can never be too careful around water, after all). Besides, the only danger posed to her was to get yelled at by Thorin and he'd scare any predators away regardless. There came a gruff and frustrated sigh and she looked to see Thorin staring longingly at the pool, the layer of dirt and grime on his face and hands evident in the moonlight.

“Go on then, Oakenshield. Nothing’s coming for us at this hour, not while we smell like the back side of a compost heap.” He continued staring at the pool, clearly at war with himself. Another curse came from his mouth as he plunged his sword into the peaty earth and began undressing, a slight flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears.

She was down to her bloomers, shift and chest wrap (unlike some hobbit lasses she was a bit too well-endowed in that area to go free, and corsets are not very adventure-friendly), and glanced over at Thorin. He had taken off his several bulky layers and was left in nothing but his undershirt and trousers. He slipped his last tunic off over his head and revealed a thick, muscular chest with broad shoulders and solid, strong arms. That is not what captivated Bilba, though. What captivated her were the tattoos on his chest the moonlight had exposed. Dark blue (at least in this light), angular and ornate, he wore them proudly from one pectoral to the other as yet another symbol of his devotion to the house of Durin.

Without thinking she walked over to him so she could see them closer, only vaguely aware of his awkward protests and shying away. “Be still,” she requested, and he grudgingly acquiesced. She traced her fingertips over the markings, learning their intricate dances across his toned muscles. She had a strange urge to lean in and kiss them, maybe trace them with her tongue, but did not. There came a quiet shadow of a rumble in Thorin’s throat, so she reluctantly left off and went back to her undressing near the pool, pulling off her shift with only her wrappings and bloomers covering her modesty.

“That wound,” he said, motioning to the large white expanse of scarred tissue spanning her lower abdomen and left hip, “how did you get it?”

“Wolves,” she responded. Bilba had had it for so long it was no longer an anomaly to her, and it was almost strange to think about it again. He walked over to her in nothing but his under-trousers and bent to study it.

“This did not heal well,” he observed.  
“No,” she agreed. “Wolf muzzles are exceedingly filthy. It happened in the Fell Winter and we didn’t have access to the outside for medicine or a healer or any of that. My mum kept it as clean as she could and made poultices to keep it from getting infected. It didn’t, which is good. But I still nearly died and got this lovely reminder.”

He fell to his knees and held her hips, his right thumb tracing the path of her scar. He stared at her flesh with such heartbreak and longing that Bilba forgot that she was supposed to be mad at him, her anger replaced with something else entirely.

“I am sorry this happened to you,” he said in a gruff, throaty voice, still tracing her scar. He apparently had the same urge Bilba had before when studying his tattoos, only he did not leave off. His left hand still gripped her hip but his right hand had moved to the curve in the small of her back and he leaned forward and kissed her scar… and kissed all of it. Some of it she couldn’t feel through the scar tissue, but some of it she felt acutely in the over-sensitive patches around and in between the scar itself. He ran his lips along its entire expanse, releasing from the hobbit a couple of sharp breaths and an almost-moan.

He continued kissing the scarred expanse, tracing it back down below her navel and then, to Bilba’s surprise, continued up the other side. His lips were soft and his beard felt scratchy and wonderful against her skin. No hobbit in the Shire had a beard even an eighth as magnificent as Thorin’s, especially none she had ever tumbled with. He was much larger, rougher, louder, ruder, so much… _more_ than any hobbit that had ever existed or would ever exist, and he was kneeling right in front of her worshiping her first and only battle wound. This thought elicited a rather wanton moan from Bilba, though it left her mouth without her consent.

Thorin looked up at Bilba with eyes now full of the hot embers of lust. He stood up and watched her like a hunter stalking prey and she felt her own body respond in kind. His left hand had never been absent from her body; rather than releasing it when he stood he had run it up her side, his rough fingers leaving a trail of firesparks in their wake, and now held it firmly in the middle of her back, pressing her to him. His blue eyes drank Bilba in; half-lidded and full of desire. She ran her hand up his neck to his jaw, reveling in the abrasive facial hair, and in a moment of ever-increasing bravery brought his face to hers.

The kisses were normal enough at first but quickly built into hungry, passionate things. His hands were on her back and untying the fabric of her wrappings and unwinding it, wanting to finally feel the hobbit’s skin unencumbered by anything. He walked her backwards to one of the many smooth boulders lining the pool and soon enough her chest was free and she was draped languidly across one while he hovered over her. He looked at her hungry and adoring and kissed the breath out of her once again, this time with the addition of fondling her newly-freed breasts.

“Mahal, these should never be wrapped or hidden away,” he groaned out, grasping the fullness, teasing the flesh and testing their weight. “They should be worshiped, by sight and touch.” After a moment of consideration he added “And taste.”

With that he clamped his mouth over a nipple and suckled, biting gently and groaning again. Bilba moaned and held on for the ride, his words only then registering.

“You try riding a pony with these unbound, it hurts! And they most certainly will be hidden away! Only choice people get to see and touch them,” she sniffed.

Responding to her cheek with a crooked smile he stated, “Then I am honored for this privilege, Lady Hobbit. I will make the most of it.” And with that he kissed and licked and bit Bilba’s skin all over, slowly making his way down her body (although his hands never left off fondling her breasts), his beard and lion’s mane hair tickling as he went.

“Ridiculous,” she chuckled, and gasped as he nipped the skin beside her navel and continued his venture, her body slicking itself further for him.

His mouth had made its way down to her pelvis, and she lifted up as he pulled down her bloomers, revealing herself to him. He growled in approval and kissed his way up her thigh, and then kissed her on her core.

“Mahal, your scent… your taste…” At that Bilba began to grow very self conscious until he continued, “It is unlike anything I have ever experienced. You are sweet and musky and…” he paused for another taste, “Durin's beard, you are delicious.”

She gasped as she felt his tongue slip between her now near-dripping folds, licking up the wetness that been caused by himself. Up and down his tongue slowly went, feeling both wonderful and torturous. He licked circles around her clit, and sucked on it, making Bilba writhe and moan and tremble. He continued this and slipped two fingers into her entrance and teasingly fucked her while he licked and sucked at her, bringing forth sticky jolts and buzzes of pleasure that compounded on one another in the most luscious way. She was nearing an orgasm when he abandoned his ministrations and pulled her off of the boulder and onto the earth.

“Why did you stop?” She asked, frustrated and breathless. He took his under-trousers off and she saw he was both hard and thick and she had never wanted anyone so badly. She briefly wondered how her body would accept his girth but dismissed it with a proud thought towards her increasing adaptability. He sank down above her and kissed and nipped his way back up Bilba’s body, pausing to focus once again on her breasts.

“Because,” he ground out, “I want you to come _around me_.” She moaned at that and he moved her legs apart with his thighs. Thorin held himself on his elbows above her, bodies almost pressed together and his lips inches from hers as he watched her face. He was hovering above the hobbit, staring at her hungrily with his blue eyes burning something intense, and she needed him inside her like she needed seven meals a day. He moved his hips so the tip of his cock was at her slicked entrance and he slathered himself in her wetness. His cock was right there, she could feel it, but still, his hips did not move again. He stared at her and Bilba growled in frustration.

“Thorin…”

“Yes?” he asked, his voice low and silky and maddeningly delicious, smoldering eyes staring into hers. He was patiently waiting and suddenly she realized… he was going to make her beg!

“I need you,” she said, in as husky a voice as she could manage, “inside me,” and moved her body tantalizingly against his. This almost broke him (his eyes widened a bit and he pressed a little more of himself to her), but his will of iron withstood. And thus, Bilba broke instead.

“Please…”

With a maddeningly self-satisfied smile Thorin leisurely moved his hips to meet hers. Bilba reveled in the feeling of him gradually filling her up, slowly gasping as he did so. Her body protested his girth, but not as much as she expected (she was plenty wet to ease the way in any case), and she stretched to accommodate him as he slowly slid home. He moaned in pleasure as he moved all of the way inside of her and Bilba panted with satisfaction as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, baring her throat to him.

Thorin unhurriedly rolled his hips again, bending down to kiss and nip her throat as he moved. Again and again he thrust into his hobbit, each time filling her up, and each time feeling incredible. He continued his assault on Bilba’s throat, staking his claim on her and marking her for himself so that everyone would know that she was indeed _his_ hobbit and not _theirs_. She tilted her hips so he could go deeper and he gave a ragged gasp and quickened his pace.

The deeper he went the harder he thrust and the better and more complete Bilba felt. Soon she had to bite his shoulder to keep from screaming with pleasure every time he thrust deep into her and hit a spot that sent bolts of pleasure zinging through her core. Thorin was vocal as well; roaring and cursing in Khuzdul and moaning deliciously. Bilba had been with silent lovers before and found them unsatisfying… this was not an issue with Thorin Oakenshield.

The dwarf and his hobbit moved against each other, skin against skin and Bilba’s felt like it was on fire. There were sparks in the pit of her stomach and her arms and legs felt tingly. Thorin continued to drive into her as he stroked and gripped Bilba’s generous and milky thighs in appreciation while they embraced his waist and his cock massaged spots inside of her that made her vision go blurry. Her hands scratched his back of their own accord and moved down to grip his ass while feeling his cock drive so wonderfully into her, throaty moans emanating from her beautiful lips spurring him on even more.

His thrusts continued and so did their moans of pleasure. After a few minutes Bilba shifted her weight and rolled him over, taking the dominant position as he lay on his back. His hair was splayed out around his head and his tattooed chest heaved with breathy pants. Bilba stared down at her dwarf through her lashes as she started to move, making note of how Thorin’s pupils dilated even more as she took charge.

Bilba rested her hands on his intricate blue markings as she moved and a particularly pleasurable thrust caused her to scratch just a little, and Thorin let out a small gasp. She moved her hips as he gripped them tightly, finding a rhythm he seemed to really enjoy if his louder moans, harder grip, and half-thrusts were anything to go by. His eyes closed as another throaty curse escaped him. He looked so good lying disheveled in the dirt, his head back, mouth open in a silent shout, and Bilba’s heart lurched with love and lust.

She continued riding him and reveling in the feeling of him inside her. In a quick move Thorin sat up, arms gripping Bilba around her soft waist. He dazedly watched his hobbit move against him, his hips moving with hers. They were all slick skin and trembling muscles and breathy moans. He kissed her and they swallowed each other’s groans and gasps of pleasure.

Bilba’s hands reached up and tangled in his hair which caused a sharp intake of breath, a glare from burning blue eyes and slightly bared teeth from Thorin, who answered by tightening his grip of his arms on her waist and quickening the pace of his thrusts up into her. Bilba’s vision had blurred again and the sparks were back twofold in her stomach, growing rapidly. The dwarven king and shireling moved against each other, pants and sighs becoming more urgent.

Bilba’s moans had become almost pleas begging him to keep going so she could climax; his curses had become shorter and more violent. Their movements led to a crescendo inside of Bilba’s body, releasing all the tension within her in an explosion of tingles and contractions and sent a quiet, wanton whisper of “Thorin…” into the night. Like Bilba, the closer he came to orgasm the quieter Thorin got. With a few final ragged breaths and then a growl, he thrust harder into her a few more times, releasing his seed into Bilba’s sated depths.

They gasped for air and tried to steady their breathing, still held close to one another. Thorin cupped one of Bilba’s cheeks and gazed at her for a moment with pure, unguarded love and adoration before he rested his forehead against her shoulder and then turned to nuzzle the marks he had put on her neck, hands migrating south to knead at the soft and ample flesh of her backside. He spoke to Bilba in a deep and spent voice full of satisfaction and afterglow.

“About that bath…”


	2. In Which Thorin is Simultaneously Awkward and Magnificent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was she insane, going out alone in the woods like that? Well, if she wasn't going to keep herself safe, someone had to.
> 
> Or: Thorin's version of events under the moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here is Chapter Two! Thank you all for being patient. I'm sure some of you had given this up as forever unfinished, but I'm just slow, not negligent. (I work 60 hours a week and things about this second part kept niggling at me.)
> 
> All mistakes are mine. I've combed through it till my eyes hurt, and I just wanted to go ahead and post it for you guys. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a common misconception that Thorin didn’t know his way around a kitchen (or stewpot), and he liked it that way. He felt honor- and duty- bound to his people, and willingly gave almost every part of himself to the Dwarves of Erebor and their plight.

The few pieces he preserved for himself were the ability to be open and easygoing, which he shared exclusively with his family; though to be honest, that side of him was never an everyday occurrence, and was usually reserved for private parties when the ale was flowing freely.

The ability to be silly was shown to his nephews, only when he was alone in watching them; when Fili and Kili told Dis and Dwalin how Thorin had played racing pony and let one ride on his back- complete with whinnying- while he raced the other on all fours, everyone thought they were telling tall tales or spouting wishful thinking. (They weren’t).

The last of himself he kept exclusive rights to, and that was cooking. Of course his people knew of his hunting prowess, that he could catch, dress, and cure many kinds of meat, but not even Dis knew of his fondness for pan-frying venison steaks in butter… or that he preferred baby carrots to full-grown because they were slightly sweeter and looked absolutely glorious when caramelized. Or that he did, in fact, have a private herb garden several paces into the woods behind their home disguised with the native flora so only those hunting for it should be able to find his little plants.

If someone were to ask how his fondness for cooking came about, Thorin would tell them that growing up in Erebor, he had been spoiled. Because of its wealth, Erebor had a surplus of spices from trading with Men, also there were no less than three different salt mines in the lower levels of the mountain, each with its own distinct taste. He was a prince of greatest kingdom in Middle earth: given the absolute best of everything, and that included food.

When Smaug came and his people were forced out of their mountain and into the west, he and Frerin were among the groups that hunted while on the road, making sure they could provide enough food for their people before they could settle somewhere permanently. The food while they were wandering tasted like ash and wood and parchment. Thorin thought it was because of the tragic loss of everything he knew, but it wasn't until they reached Ered Luin and started fortifying and building a new home, and the food still tasted poor, that he realized that the food he had been given in Erebor didn’t come that delicious and wonderful by nature.

While out on a multi-day hunting trip alone (because he couldn’t stand Thror’s rants about Moria yet again) he discovered an herb. He had turned over in the night and awoke with a face full of a sweet-smelling, flat-leaved green weed that reminded him of the roasted potatoes that were among his favorite dishes. Taking a chance, he tore up some of the leaves and put it in his morning stew, and it was like a switch had flipped. The flavor, oh, that wonderful taste!

Thorin had taken the herb bunch back with him and done research. Basil, he had found, but there were many other kinds of edible herbs used for enhancing food. He decided then and there that he would study food-craft, and for decades, through needless deaths and battles and long bouts of struggle, in between his council meetings and lessons with Balin and working in the forge, he cooked.

Through trial and error, he taught himself one recipe and technique after the other, and though it took him longer to master this skill than smithing or even state craft, he was committed. There were times he was his own worst enemy, thinking he knew better than the books, but he learned quickly that you can’t, in fact, keep poking at cooking potatoes impatiently lest they break apart, and that you really, really should stir gravy constantly.

He considered cooking for Fili and Kili when they were weaned off of yak’s milk and mushed vegetables, but if he cooked for them he’d have to cook for Dis, and Dwalin and Balin and Gloin and his family and… no, it’s best he kept it to himself.

Over a century and a half passed, and somehow, miraculously, he had been able to maintain his secret love of preparing food. To be fair, he could never manage anything fanciful or anything that contained flour (to his shame, he had blamed that particular mess on Fili and Kili in a moment of panic) but he could make simple meals quite well, if he said so himself.

While this new life was different and harder than the life he had in Erebor, it taught him to appreciate things more; simple but delightful things like a well-crafted sword, a night spent between another’s legs, a few rounds of ale with Dwalin and their friends, and a well-prepared meal.

Bombur, son of Bindur, was one of the best cooks in Ered Luin and Thorin often found himself at the inn where Bombur cooked appreciating his many edible delights. Dwalin thought it was for the dark ale, but Thorin had a secret fondness for Bombur’s bread, meat pies, and especially his custard tarts.

When it came time to recruit for the Company, he enlisted Bombur as cook with the promise of plenty of money and room in the soon-to-be reclaimed Erebor for Bombur’s ever-growing family. That Bifur (an accomplished warrior) and Bofur (who was always moments away from a party and would be good for morale) came along was just a bonus. Thorin refused to cook for everyone and he would be damned if he was going months on the road with nothing but ash-food again.

\---

The journey started off well enough, the Company fully-stocked and everyone clean, comfortable, and happy. He knew it wasn’t to last, and so he enjoyed it while he could. Upon entering the Shire, he was both annoyed and fascinated by the small creatures and their comforts. Thorin could absolutely understand their love of food, and why hadn’t he thought of seven meals a day, that was such a great idea… but how did none of them become wider than they were tall eating like that?

On the other hand, their fear and dislike for anything foreign, new, or (Mahal-forbid) different, was a matter of contempt for him. But when he had gotten lost and found himself outside an inn calling itself the Green Dragon with the most wonderful smell emanating, he just had to stop and eat a bite. After all, it had been hours since lunch, how could he expect to enter negotiations on an empty stomach? And as much food as this burglar would have cooked still probably wouldn’t be enough for thirteen dwarves, and in all honesty Thorin felt very confident that he could finish the spread by himself, and that was just rude wasn’t it? Stopping for something to eat was only the courteous thing to do.

After a truly excellent meal and getting lost one more time (damn these Halflings and their circular roads) Gandalf opened the green door of the long-sought Hobbit hole, and ushered him into a tunnel where he found himself face-to-face with _her_ , and his world turned upside down just a little.

She was bigger than some of the hobbits he had encountered that day, but still tiny compared to him and he suddenly felt very large and very stupid and just stared at her for a moment like a big great ape and Gandalf was making introductions- her name was Bilba- and apparently his default personality was terrible because he had just insulted her, hadn’t he?

He condescendingly asked her about weapons even thought it was obvious she’d never fought in her life and did a turn about her as if evaluating her as a soldier. She was small, and was now making herself smaller in self-consciousness, and Thorin would hate himself if he wasn’t so busy. Her hair couldn’t decide if it wanted to be blonde or brown and what color were her eyes? Were they gray or green? And was she talking back to him while cowering?

She smelled of cake.

He had to look away, before he said something even worse, and made his way through the nearest hallway, his stance arrogant like he owned the place even though he had no idea where he was going.

He was given a bowl of truly astounding soup (everything else was gone and it was a good thing he’d stopped for food after all, wasn’t it?) and sat down to talk with his Company. He could feel her, he could smell her, but he somehow kept his composure when he couldn’t decide if he wanted to yell at her for no reason or get on his knees and beg her for some of the cake she smelled of.

This, this… hobbit lass was nothing but contradictions. She asked intelligent questions even though she had never heard of Erebor or Smaug. She bravely admitted she’d never stolen anything, even though she was clearly afraid of their presence. He couldn’t figure her out, and he couldn’t figure out why he cared so much.

Thorin couldn’t remember much of the rest of that night from his distraction. He was sure there had been a song involved, and he hoped they’d cleaned up after themselves, and it had taken a monumental amount of self-control to stay on his own bedroll in the middle of her drawing room.

He was especially disappointed when she didn’t follow them out of her hobbit-hole, didn’t even get up to say goodbye, and if that was the reason for his glower being sharper than usual (instead of lacking a burglar, but they had Nori so it wasn’t a huge problem), then that was nobody’s business but his own.

Oh, but she came, with a musical shout and running after them with her contract waving like a banner, cheeks flushed with exertion and pride, and Thorin felt a strange sensation like his chest was cracking open.

“Give her a pony,” he ordered and turned away quickly, glad to be at the front so no one could see the grin commandeering his face. Thorin knew then that he was well and truly wrecked, but in that moment, he couldn’t give a damn.

\---

Bilba was bothersome. She had never been adventuring before and had packed poorly. It was nigh impossible to wake her in the mornings. She was always chatting with someone, asking an endless stream of questions. She had an interest in elves. She had a sharp tongue when he addressed her. She had almost no useful skills whatsoever. She was too smart for her own good. She slowed them down. She looked at him like he was a giant wolf, something to fear and avoid.

He hated her.

Bilba was kind. She tried to find common ground with each and every member of the Company. She could identify herbs and berries as good as Oin and helped make poultices. She managed to reprimand Fili and Kili with a few words and no shouts at all, and afterwards they would give her the moon if they could. She was quick to laugh and free with her smiles. Her collaborations with Bombur had resulted in no less than the best meals of Thorin’s life.

She was wonderful.

\---

They replenished supplies when they could, and the extra ingredients coupled with Bilba and Bombur’s skill often made for bigger and more complex meals, meals in which Thorin greedily exercised his right as King and took a bit more than his fair share- though he would never do such a thing if food were scarce. There was enough to go around several times so he didn’t feel guilty, but he always had to spend several hours more than usual sparring with Dwalin, lest he end up a size similar to Bombur.

On one such occasion, a few days after passing through a village and stocking up on not just food and supplies but also a barrel of ale, the Company made merry around their campfire in the woods, and Thorin found himself sitting against a tree nursing his fourth meat pie and sixth mug of ale, tapping his boot to the beat of the tune and about as content as it was possible to be.

Bofur was singing a cheerful tune with Dwalin accompanying him on the fiddle (paying Ori more attention than normal, the latter dancing with both Fili and Kili while returning Dwalin’s heated glances), while several of the dwarves were dancing around the campfire. Gandalf was smoking his pipe and enjoying the party, Oin and Dori were in a discussion, and Bifur had fallen asleep cuddling a small raccoon he had shared his pies with.

Bilba was sitting against another tree, giggling at the lot of them, cheeks flushed beautifully. Her curls were coming loose from their clip and her gray-green eyes sparkled, and as she laughed, Thorin couldn’t help but be drawn to her creamy throat and bosom.

He couldn’t help but sulk a little when he thought of their last encounter: that he had said they couldn’t stop for a few days for rest and cleansing had caused her to light into him, and in between her dressing him down he had roared at her about time constraints and unnecessary luxuries. Never before had a woman stood up to him like that (except Dis, of course), and it was… refreshing. At the thought, he felt the crack in his chest widen, and chugged his ale empty, glad that he had the foresight to bring over two more mugs with him.

“Why isn’t our hobbit dancing?” Bofur crowed. A cry of agreement rippled through the company, and Nori and Kili grabbed Bilba by the wrists and she started to join in their steps and added more of her own. She was so stunning, lit by the fire and showing off her stepping skills and Thorin felt the urge to mark up her skin and make her _his_ hobbit instead of theirs. Instead, he took another bite from his pie, reveling in the taste and noting that the only way it could be improved was with some of Erebor’s purple salt.

Two more pies and five mugs of ale later, Thorin was in a bad way. Bilba had laughed and danced with everyone except him, and had given everyone a piece of her time except him (she even went to put a blanket over Bifur and his raccoon, which had moved from the crook of his arm to curling in a ball on top of his chest).

Thorin was full of resentment, bitterness, admiration, lust, jealousy, possessiveness, appreciation, and other emotions he couldn’t put a name to, and especially so full pie and ale that he felt ill. Fit to burst, he wandered out of the clearing to sick up and pass out not like a King at the end of his second century but a dwarfling of fifty.

Sometime after the celebration had come to a close, with everyone passed out around the dying fire, Thorin had woken in his little clearing shivering with a foul taste on his tongue. He dragged himself back to the campsite and found a waterskin to wash his mouth out with, as well as a chunk of bread to settle his stomach and some basil and rosemary leaves from the herb pouch to banish away the taste of sicked-up meat pies.

He sat there after a while, keeping watch over his Company, who were resting peacefully. All, that is, except Gandalf, who appeared to be keeping watch while the rest snored loudly. Thorin sent him silent thanks for that, and got lost in his own thoughts of Erebor and what all would need tending to once they had retaken it.

Bilba was cuddled on her bedroll between a tangled Fili and Kili, and Dwalin (who was clutching Ori so hard to his chest Thorin wondered how Ori was sleeping so peacefully.) She rolled over a few times but always settled and Thorin’s mind quickly returned to Erebor after such interruptions.

After a good long while, Bilba rustled again, and Thorin watched her from the shaded seclusion under his tree as she put a few more logs on the embers and persuaded it back to flame. She then went to the supply packs to dig around, walked towards the edge of the trees and then disappeared into the woods and what the HELL was she doing?!

Horrified, Thorin got to his feet and followed as quickly and quietly as he could. Bilba’s intelligence was one of the things Thorin admired most about her, but going into strange woods at night, vulnerable and defenseless was about as unintelligent as you could get.

Going as silently as he could in his still slightly-drunken state, Thorin grabbed his sword and followed the foolish Hobbit into the woods, ready to protect her from whatever wild things would lurk and steal her for a snack. She seemed to know where she was headed instead of wandering aimlessly, and Thorin’s curiosity piqued.

Eventually he heard the sound of running water and realized what Bilba, that glorious fool, was going to do. She had reached the clearing of a small spring, lined with smooth boulders and the water twinkling in the moonlight; Thorin had to admit it was extremely inviting. His attention, however, was caught by Bilba undressing.

She was going to strip down alone, naked, and vulnerable in the middle of night in strange woods. She was insane. He had to do something before she took off too many of her clothes; he took a breath and stepped into the clearing.

The noise he had made startled her, and she stilled, pointed ears listening to the night. She turned herself around slowly, as if she were looking ominously into her own demise. _Good_ , he thought, _let that be a lesson_.

He demanded to know what she was doing. She replied an answer that was tart and not what he wanted to hear. His head was spinning just a bit and he was still tired, and her plump, round, smooth shoulders were distracting him. He just wanted a ‘yes, you’re right! I’ve been a fool, let’s go back to camp and sleep next to each other for warmth.’ Was that so much to ask? But Bilba clearly had other plans and a stubborn streak to rival his own, so she continued in her distracting manner.

“Mahal's hammer, woman, if you have not the wits to defend yourself mid-night in a forest, someone will have to do it for you.”

She ignored him and kept removing articles of clothing, and Thorin was torn between watching her and running into the pool face-first for his own self. He had a feeling the cool water would to wonders for his current sour-mouthed, fuzzy-headed, all over gross-feeling state.

He hadn’t realized he had let out an audible sigh, because Bilba teased and reasoned with him simultaneously (a unique skill of hers) until he stabbed the ground with his blade and sought nothing more than cool water on his burning skin.

They undressed silently and eagerly. Thorin became more and more aware they were revealing themselves to each other; the dwarves considered this an honor for kin or Ones alone. That they regarded each other as such, (although as which he could not say), had his body reacting in a way unsuitable for the situation.

He tried to think of other things, like how far they had left to travel and whom they would need to meet with at different junctures, and completely missed Bilba walking over to him with a strange gleam in her eye. She approached him completely unguarded, gazing at his Durin marks with awe and appreciation. On instinct he turned away and started muttering some rubbish about propriety when she shushed him and touched.

Her fingers ghosted his tattoos, the feel of them light like silken sheets. It was exploratory and intimate, and getting rapidly out of hand. His head started feeling like mud and he wanted to touch her in return, to catalogue her skin. He let out a growl that was all frustration and hesitance. She left off her studies and turned away to remove her shift.

Once she was in her unders, he couldn’t help but stare at her abdomen. Even after long weeks of rationed meals, her stomach was smooth and round. Not as full as it had been when they had left the shire, but still generous and it reminded him of plentiful meals and delicious flavors and he found himself wanting to see what the skin below her navel (and lower still) tasted like.

What caught his attention after that was a huge scar, old and silver on her pale skin, twisting up from below navel to hip.  
“That wound, how did you get it?” he inquired.

“Wolves,” she replied. Curiosity piqued again, he moved closer to study it further. What had she been through to get this? His chest constricted.

“This did not heal well,” he observed. She agreed and told him more about it, and his brave, strong hobbit amazed him more and more every day, and he fell to his knees.

Thorin was still drunk, first from ale and now from Bilba. The crack in his chest opened up and consumed him. Weeks of internal struggle about her beauty, her character, her strength all flooded out and washed everything away… until there was nothing left but Bilba, and a physical need to show his appreciation to her, to apologize for every disparaging snipe and comment he had ever aimed at this amazing creature.

He gently grasped her hips and ran his thumb along her scar. “I am sorry this happened to you,” he croaked. He stared at it longingly until instinct and emotion took control over, and disregarding propriety, honor, his own hesitations, the Company, and the whole of Arda, Thorin kissed the scar on her belly.

He kissed it up from below her stomach to the top of her hip, and down all of it again, every touch of lips an apology. He held fast to her hip with one hand and stroked her back soothingly with the other, and he worshiped her.

…and then he couldn’t stop.

When he reached the end of the scar below her navel, he traced the same route up her other hip, kisses turned from apology to reverence. He loved the way her plumpness molded to his touch, her abdomen soft and pliable in a way that dwarf women simply weren’t, and it stoked the fire in his bones.

Bilba let out a beautiful sound of bliss, and Thorin came out of his haze to the most beautiful sight he had laid his eyes upon in all his long years: Bilba, skin dirty, hair mussed, mostly naked staring down at him with flushed face and hooded eyes shining, silently asking for more.

He stood slowly, keeping his left hand to her body to feel the contours as he went up. He made no move other than to hold her to him; firmly, but loose enough that she could escape if she wanted to. Instead of pulling away, she touched his neck and jaw, and pulled his face to her. And in that moment, Thorin was lost in the most wonderful way possible.

He kissed her simply at first, but the fire in her had caught as well and they burned bright as flames consumed by their own passion. He untied her wrappings, walking them towards the boulders as he did so, and laid her back on one after he had gotten her breasts free.

They weren’t small, or large, they simply suited Bilba... but this did not prevent Thorin from testing their weight and feel and they were perfection.

“Mahal, these should never be wrapped or hidden away. They should be worshiped, by sight and touch… and taste.” He sucked and licked at her nipple, reveling in her sounds and his own joys.

“You try riding a pony with these unbound, it hurts! And they most certainly will be hidden away! Only choice people get to see and touch them,” she objected.

He smiled crookedly, thanked her for the honor, and continued his ministrations of appreciation. He made his way down her body, nipped at the plush skin of her lower navel (a part of her that was already a favorite), and pulled her bloomers off.

Her legs rested on his shoulders, and he kissed his way up one luscious thigh and then kissed her on her core. She was more musky than normal, but Thorin loved the concentrated scent and flavor. It was uniquely Bilba, strong and hardy and appetizing, and Thorin said as much before he slid his tongue in between her folds, noting somewhere in the back of his head that Hobbits had hair in another place besides their heads and feet.

She tasted so wonderful, sweet and savory and musky all at once, and in all his practice he could never cook or create anything that tasted as good as Bilba, and he savored every bit of her.

He couldn’t get enough, the flavor, the sound, the feel, and quickly found what she liked. He licked and sucked at her pearl and added a couple of fingers to his motions. He felt Bilba tense more and more, until she was quivering and on the cusp and, well, this was not how he wanted her first orgasm from him to be, so he removed himself and placed her on the soft ground.

“Why did you stop?” she demanded breathlessly as he freed himself from his trousers. She eyed up his girth and had a hunger in her eye he wanted to see forever. He sank down above her, administering more kisses and nips to her tender flesh.

“Because,” he said with great effort, “I want you to come _around me._ ”

She moaned wantonly at that and he spread her thighs with his own. Their bodies and lips almost touched, but not quite, and he watched her face turn from desire to expectancy, to frustration when he positioned himself at her entrance and slicked the head of his cock in her wetness. He nearly took her right then, but he needed to be sure.

“Thorin…” she whimpered.

“Yes?”

“I need you… inside me.” With her explicit consent and that wonderful feeling of her body rubbing against his, he almost drove into her, but the sadistic part of his mind wondered how far he could push her. He nuzzled her hair and wondered where this iron patience had come from.

“Please…” she breathed out. Thorin smiled, and gently entered her; slow enough to let her small body accommodate him. She was slick and hot and silky, and when he was finally seated to the hilt, let out a groan of satisfaction while she closed her eyes in a haze, a small smile on her lips as she let her head fall back.

He nuzzled, licked, and then bit the skin on her throat as he pulled out and thrust back in, just as slow as the first time. He continued his lazy pace while he marked her skin so that everyone could see she had been claimed, everyone would know that she might be a member of the Company, but she was his Ghivashel, his One.

She shifted her pelvis and Thorin felt himself slide deeper still into her, and his hips pistoned harder on instinct. She moaned louder still, until she had to bite his shoulder to keep from crying out; this did nothing to Thorin but spur him on.

He touched her anywhere he could, but when he gripped her creamy thighs he loved the way his fingers made impressions in her skin. Her body welcomed him in every sense and it felt good and right to be inside of her. He thrust into her warmth in the ways that made her moan the loudest, and he could not stop growls and swears from escaping his own throat, even if he had wanted to.

He continued thrusting into her, his soul and desire feeding off of her scratches and gasps and shudders. After a while, in a surprising move, she maneuvered his weight against him and flipped him onto his back. He stared up at her, his hands still gripping her plentiful thighs, and she stared down at him triumphant, disheveled, and gorgeous.

She moved her hips and Thorin was lost, so completely lost in Bilba that he just lay back and let her consume him. She was everywhere, on top of him, around him, inside his mind and his heart and if he died in that moment, he could think of no finer way to be welcomed into the Halls of Mandos.

Bilba braced herself on his chest and when she found a spot particularly pleasurable for the both of them, she scratched his chest involuntarily. Thorin responded to it immediately, thrusting up into her and gasping. This encouraged her even more and he just closed his eyes and gripped her hips, completely unable to do anything else.

She rocked down onto him and he savored every sinking of hips and raising of thighs, until he had regained control of his limbs and sat up until they were face to face. He circled her waist with his arms and kissed her deep, while she continued riding him to within an inch of his life.

Eventually Thorin made small movements to thrust up to meet her. Their muscles trembled from excitement and exertion and their chests heaved with breathy moans. Sweat-slick skin moved against each other, each thrust for both of them sent sticky bolts of lightning pleasure through them. Thorin’s cock was as stiff as it had ever been, and Bilba was as wet as he was hard.

She reached up and tangled her hands in his hair and, quite by accident, pulled. Thorin thrust harder into her and let out a curse and silently dared her to do it again. She tugged harder, and he growled and their movements became more urgent as a King and his Halfling sought release.

When Thorin thought he was nearing his point of no return, Bilba shuddered and clenched around him, whole body convulsing in his arms and her fingers pulling at his hair as she quietly gasped his name, and a few movements later Thorin released his seed into her, gripping her tight enough to bruise, but not tight enough to hurt.

They came down from their highs in each other’s arms, catching their breath and murmuring adorations and affections to each other, both stroking soothing patterns into the other’s skin. Thorin took her face in his hand, and just looked at her, simply looked and marveled at the creature in his lap, and noticed the red and purple marks on her throat.

He licked and kissed them while his hands moved to grip her soft and warm backside, and said in a low and satisfied voice, “About that bath…”

Bilba giggled, and Thorin felt whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Bilba's figure to be like the ideal body of ancient Greece: smaller up top, wider hips, thighs, and bum, with soft padding. Look up _Venus de Milo_ if you're curious. 
> 
> I may or may not eventually make this into a series and post other shorts in this universe. I like this version of them (well obviously, they're my version), but if you all would like some more tidbits with Thorin and Bilba, I'm sure I can accomodate. :)


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